I was in the mountains when I first realized that miracles could exist. Not in the biblical sense, the way I saw it, but in that visceral feeling you get when something is real and at the same time magical.
Our rental car on the ride up to Mt. Cook was a nice one. One of those shiny, tank-like creations with the headlamps that look like cartoon shark eyes. We’d been in the car for several hours, already and everywhere around us the fields had sunken into valleys so deep you had to crane your neck out the window to see the bottom. Did I mention that we had forgotten our map in the previous night’s hotel room? Oh yeah, and (once again) we were feeling like we might have taken a wrong turn.
It started quietly at first, a flash of cotton speeding past my window.
I blinked. “Was that a bush?” I asked?
Except a moment later, two more muddy “bushes” sped past the other side of the car, their milk-coloured ears flicking, heads bobbing up and down as they ran.
Matt broke out into a laugh. “They’re sheep!” he said, driving slower.
Sheep poured over the horizon, hundreds of them crowding up the nearby hills and in every direction of the road.
“It’s already two,” I said, trying to keep the nerves from jangling into my voice.
Matt turned off the engine. Frowned. “Hm,” he said.
“They’ll cancel our reservation!” I said.
Then he turned to me with one of his mischievous grins that got me hooked on him in the first place, opened the door and took off running down the road after the sheep.
“Move along little sheepies!” he hollered. “Git! Git!” He turned around to wave me out into the crowd, his wild, curly hair the only thing setting him apart from all of the wooly heads.
I laughed. The spell was broken.
We did reach the mountains, eventually. They were only around the next hillside, we soon learned. Together, we looked up at Mt. Cook, stepping out of the car into the biting winter air.
It’s not like I hadn’t seen mountains before. In Christchurch and the country that surrounds it the mountains rise out of the fields like silent spectators. Can a mountain—or a herd of sheep—be a miracle? Miracles, I think, are those ordinary moments that make you realize the wonders of the mundane.
This time, seeing the mountain was different. It had the feeling of an end to a journey, the way Frodo must have imagined himself when he finally reached Mordor. In a few short weeks, we would fly home and the future seemed uncertain.
“It seems far,” I said, as we headed down the boardwalk, the mountain looming icily before us. I had to shield my eyes with my hand to see it clearly.
Matt jogged ahead, then stopped to peer at Mt. Cook himself. “We can make it,” he said.
I smiled. I didn’t know for sure if we could–make it, that is–but I took off down the empty path anyway. “Maybe so,” I said. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”